We're Going Home
by KyinHI
Summary: Post-Linchpin. After the fade to black. What should, but in all likelihood won't, happen.
1. Chapter 1

**Oh My F'ing Goodness, Linchpin! What kind of a kick-ass episode was that?**

**I simply had to write something. And so here it is. My version of what should have gone down after the fade to black. Of course this isn't what's going to happen. But a girl can dream. Right?**

**Written quick and dirty, not a soul has seen it and I edited as I wrote. Any murdering of the English language is entirely my fault and I apologize. Enjoy. **

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><p>"So, Old Haunt? I'll buy you a drink"<p>

It sounds flat to her ears. Used and repetitive.

She's sick of libations after work. A drink with the boys, a pint with the pals. She wants to take him home and wrap herself in his arms. Spend the night on her sofa talking about their dreams and their hopes. The things he'd so angrily accused her of hiding from all those months ago.

But that's not what they do. Keeping it professional and steadfastly refusing to cross the line. That's what they do. Safety in numbers. Be it cops from the precinct or a dinner at home with his family. She wants to take him home, her home where there are no distractions, drink a fine glass of Merlot and form a cocoon with him in her bed. Wake up with him in the morning. Wake up to butterfly kisses and his breath at her neck, the shell of her ear.

She doesn't think she can stand another morning of waking up to the taste of salt-water and the deep and abiding regret of missed opportunities.

She wants to be more. She wants him.

If that woman had made anything clear, through all the lies and deception, it was that she is ready. As Sophia had made her catty, little spiel about tension and lost sparks, all Kate had thought was that the woman was wrong. Even before the ugly truth had come out, the deception and the lies. She didn't believe a word of it. He'd made her believe.

It was different with them. It _is_ different with them.

"I'd like that."

His hearts not in it, she can tell. He looks like he wants to go home and lick his wounds.

"Thought you might."

She's not going to let him. Not anymore. Enough.

They make their way towards the elevator, stopping for coats and another round of questioning by the boys. He's making all the right quips and he's smiling and playing coy in all the right places. But the smile never reaches his eyes and she thinks she had better get him out of here sooner rather than later.

It's not every day your once muse, turned lover, turned..._whatever,_ ends up being a sleeper agent for the now defunct KGB. Add to that some maybe true, but probably not, intimations concerning his father and it makes for a Richard Castle she's not particularly familiar with.

Cocky, brave, gallant. That is the Castle she knows.

"Come on, Castle," she says, excessively bright, overly cheery.

She nudges him in the shoulder and cocks her head towards the elevator.

"Let's get going. Leave these buffoons to do the paperwork."

"Hmm? Sure." he mumbles.

She shoots the boys a warning glare, daring them to continue their little tirade. They catch the look, questioning with their eyes for a second but seeming to sense the slight disorder to her partner's disposition. They accede with an overly dramatic huff for his benefit, receive a self-satisfied smirk from Castle in return and allow her to lead him towards the elevator.

He's loyal to a fault, she thinks as they walk in sync to the elevator lobby. Trusts without question once his friendship has been offered.

And maybe that's the problem. Why he's having such a hard time bouncing back from this one. This had happened before. Almost a year ago to the day with Damian Westlake. His trusting heart and kind soul had not allowed him to believe that anyone could give him less than he offered in return. He'd defended Damian, now Sophia, and that steadfast loyalty had come to bite him in the rear.

What..who else must he be questioning now?

She's needs to prove to him, she thinks as the doors slide open and she depresses the button for the lobby, that loyalty is a two way street. That they didn't deserve the faith he had put in them.

That she does.

She realizes now that she hasn't done a particularly good job of returning his fidelity lately. She realizes that while at the surface their relationship has grown, flourished, since her return from the shooting, that she's been doing a pretty fine job of shutting him out and letting him wait for her trust. Her love. She realizes belatedly that while offering him smiles and drinks after work, the secret she is keeping is nothing but another blow to his unceasing faithfulness. That she doesn't deserve the belief he is bestowing upon her.

_"If you're stubborn enough to keep going, I'm stupid enough to go with you." _

The phrase keeps repeating in her mind. She doesn't want him to be stupid. She doesn't want to prove him right.

She's sick of being stubborn and he damn well isn't stupid.

He is brilliant and caring. Trustworthy and honest. Protective and would never intentionally hurt her. She wonders as the small, metal box descends, as she brushes her pinky finger against his wrist and as he smiles in return, as he clenches his fists and holds back from clasping her hand; she wonders what's stopping her. Why the hell is she still waiting?

It's not the case.

Her case or her mothers. She hasn't touched it..them, in months. She'd become cognizant of the fact that she didn't even want to look into it without him at her side. She'd realized it the very first week back on the job. She'd gone home and opened up the shutters, stared at her homemade board and felt nauseous with guilt.

As his fearful face when he'd asked her to, "give it time", had blurred into her vision and stopped her in her tracks, she'd packed up the files and put them aside.

For him.

For the memory of his anguished face in the cemetery. His shattered face at her bedside and his pleading and hopeful voice when he'd asked her to step back.

It's not her feelings.

She's been clear on them for a long time. Certain since the day in the bank. When the reverberation of explosives had rocked the van, when the smell of hot metal and the grit of pulverized concrete had assaulted her senses. When smoke had burned her eyes and she had been certain in that one small moment, sure, that she was too late. Sure she had lost him and she'd felt for the briefest of points in time what he must have felt on that warm, spring day. What he'd felt as she'd fled for the woods and left him alone in the city.

It's not even her once fragile psyche.

The episodes of PTSD have become rarer. Since he'd told her "you've got this, Kate". Since Esposito had taken her into storage and placed the cool, mottled steel into her hands. Since she's kept up with her doctors appointments and begun writing in a journal before bed. She's made it weeks without a nightmare and longer without trembling hands. It's still there but she wonders now why she doesn't let him help her with that. It would be so easy to sink into his warm embrace.

She wants to be enveloped in his concern. His love. She wants to give it back.

No, she thinks as the car reaches the lobby and she tugs on his hand to pull him out toward the sidewalk. As the afternoon sun blinds her and she flashes to the cold murky waters of the river. The distant glow that had faded away as the Crown Vic had sunk deeper into the abyss. As she recalls that the only thing she had felt as the brackish water lapped at her eyelashes, as her lungs burned for breath, the only thing she had felt was regret.

That she'd never get to tell him.

She's ready. She's been ready. She's in love with him.

She's been waiting on him to make another move and it's not at all fair of her. It's time for her to do the giving.

Of her trust. Her love. The truth.

Two-way street. Partners.

"Change of plans," she smiles, leading him towards the street.

"Where are we going?" he asks, a little of the Castle she knows shining through. The curiosity drawing a small spark of light to his eyes.

"Home, Castle," she smiles, linking her arm through his and hailing a cab. Smiling openly and perhaps a little suggestively.

"We're going home."


	2. Chapter 2

**Back. By popular demand. It's another chapter to We're Going Home. You all may want to kill me once you get to the end of this. ;)**

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><p>He's giddy on the ride to her place. A nervous combination of excitement, hope. Trepidation.<p>

_We're going home._

_We're. Him and her. Going home. To her place._

His leg jiggles of it own volition as he stares absently out the window and she bumps him in the shoulder again. He can't look at her. He can't. If he looks at her he will pull her into a bone crushing hug. The one he wanted to give her on the pier. After they'd survived. Again. After they'd dragged their weary bones up the ladder and collapsed side by side, spluttering and choking for breath.

"Relax, Castle."

But how is he supposed to relax? With three little words, not even_ the_ words, she has shifted the entire dynamic of their relationship. She doesn't ask him to her place. He insinuates himself there. Sure, she's stopped rolling her eyes when she opens the door now and generally greets him with whats he's begun to realize is a smile saved entirely for him; but she never asks him over.

Never.

She rests her hand on his knee for the rest of the short drive. Calms the twitch to his leg but instigates a frenzied staccato in his heart. Like it's an everyday occurrence. Like she doesn't realize the sparks that tingle all the way down to his toes or the words that threaten to spill from his lips.

God. He hopes she knows what she's doing. He has no clue. It's taking every ounce of restraint that he has not to say it again. What he'd said back in May. What he'd wanted to say again so very badly as his lungs had heaved up a mouthful of water, as she rolled heavily to his side and rested her cheek to his sodden chest.

"Later," she'd said. As he'd taken a deep breath and choked on her name. As though she could hear his innermost thoughts. As though perhaps she wanted to say it too. "Later, Castle," she'd said as she soothed her hands across his heaving chest.

"I promise.. later."

She had probably been right.

As she'd heaved herself off him and shot him a warning glance. As she'd dug through a corpses clothes to find a phone. As she'd fallen back into cop mode and as he sat shivering on the pier waiting for assistance, he never truly believed that later would come. Certainly not so soon. Not after Sophia had ordered them back to HQ and the surreal day that had followed. He still hasn't wrapped his mind around that. Around how terrible a judge of character he has become. He should have paid closer attention to her reservations. He'd forgotten to look for the story and gone on blind faith. Followed a woman he'd never really known almost to his death. Almost led Kate to her own. Again.

He still has faith in Kate though. He saw the flash of shame in her eyes as she'd paused a moment before claiming Sophia had been full of lies. As she'd tried to comfort him with the reemergence of the mystery that is his paternity.

And that's the difference.

Damian. Sophia. He had believed their lies because they owned no remorse. There was no tell because they didn't care.

She cares though. He thinks she might even love. And so he still has faith in her. He will always have faith in her because he knows her like he didn't know them; because he stuck around when in an earlier lifetime, her history would have made him run. In an earlier incarnation, Richard Castle would have left the minute she'd made it clear there would be no conquest. He has trust in her because she allowed him back after a summer in the Hamptons, when he fears he should have stayed. Because she'd grasped his hand in the middle of a tense stand-off to give him a moment of comfort. To take one for herself.

Because he'd promised her 'Always'.

And she'd said it back.

He needs to tell her when life and death isn't at stake. He needs to tell her because it's the truth and she needs to hear it. Believe it. If Sophia had taught him anything amongst her betrayal and lies it's that Katherine Beckett has a jealous streak to her.

'Jealous Beckett' is rather hot, he thinks, smiling to himself as he watches the scenery fly past the window. He liked the way she was all flustered and catty in the morgue. Liked how she lost control and let Kate, the woman shine through. She's been doing a lot of that lately. Letting her softer, more vulnerable side show.

He could have lived without his daughter being a witness to it though. It'll be a long while until he lives that one down. And he may never get Beckett back in his apartment and near Alexis again. Not if that look of mortification on her pretty face was any indication. Still, it's the most forward progress he's seen from her in a long while. A verbalization rather than a secret smile or an 'accidental' brush of hands.

But that jealousy can only be because there is a part of her that doubts what he said. What he'd confessed that, warm, spring day so long ago.

She needs to believe it.

So long ago and yet he remembers it like yesterday. He dreams of it more often than not. Wakes in a cold sweat with her name on his lips, his hands frantically searching for his phone. His fingers hovering over the 'call' button. Never having the courage to actually follow through. Afraid to add to the already large and cumbersome burden she carries. He wishes more than anything that when it happens, _them,_ or the dreams, he will be able to simply roll over and pull her into his embrace. Inhale her scent and let it lull him back to a sweeter imagery.

She heard him. He's sure of it. From the small upturn of her lips before her eyes had rolled back, as her eyelids had drifted shut and his world had fallen apart.

She remembered. He was sure of that as well. From the brilliant smile as he'd entered the hospital ward, quickly shuttered away with a glance toward Doctor Motorcycle Boy. From the flash of deception in her eyes as he'd asked what she remembered at her bedside. From the flinches and pursed lips, as he'd continued prodding from time to time.

He understands. It had hurt but he knows why she lied. On one level, he's thankful. That she had the strength not to give in when they both needed each other so much. As much as he had ached to hold her, to carry the weight as she recovered from a bullet wound and the perhaps more painful trauma of Montgomery's betrayal, he knows it would have ended in disaster.

He doesn't want what they have, what they will have, to start out from a point of desperation. Fools rush in and Kate is no fool. She wants one and done. He wants to be the one. If she's overly cautious, it's not entirely her fault. He's proven twice before he has a habit of not looking before he leaps. He wants them to start from a place of trust. And how could she have possibly trusted anyone in that moment? When the man that had carried her through the most painful points in her life, through her incremental healing, had been so incredibly untruthful. Montgomery had redeemed himself but was still yet another brick in the wall that is the parapet around her heart.

What he doesn't understand is why she is still lying. Why they both are. She's not the only one with a secret and as hopeful as this cab ride has him, as certain as he is that something has changed and that she is ready, he knows he has to confess.

Tonight.

Before anything more can be said. Or done. Before more mistakes can be made or opportunities lost. Before another layer of fortification is amended to the ramparts that safeguard her feelings. God. He hopes she can forgive him. Hopes she understands why he's been doing what he's been doing.

A sharp nudge to the knee. A raised brow and a self-satisfied smirk. He wonders how long they have been sitting at the curb as his vision swims back to the present. As memories of dark alleyways, tongues clashing, hands on his collar and love shining brightly in her eyes, recede back to the past.

"You gonna open the door, Rick?"

_Rick? God, Woman. Have a little mercy._

"Yeah. Sure."

He fumbles with the door handle but succeeds in composing himself on the short walk up to her apartment's lobby. He manages to throw her a grin as the elevator ascends and bumps her shoulder in return. They share a look, as she slides the key in the lock and turns the handle, a look that's loaded with knowledge.

Knowledge that this may be make or break time.

"We need to talk.."

Standing in the kitchen and struggling for words, she fidgets with the sleeve of her shirt. He eyes the coffee maker like it might hold the mysteries of the universe. Waiting for the other to break the silence following those four shared words. Waiting but neither really wanting to be the one to make the first move.

"I'll start some coffee?"

His smile is shy, questioning and unsure.

"I'm gonna go get changed. Back in a minute?"

A nod and twin breaths released. A partial reprieve to gather their thoughts.

While she changes and the brew bubbles out of the spout and into the container, he makes the rounds of her apartment. He notes the new additions to her bookshelves, notes the way the late afternoon sun shines almost horizontal slats of golden and warming light into the room. Sunlight. There is so much sunlight and her apartment is engulfed in a soft glow. It's almost serene. There are more feminine touches now, accenting the modern and somewhat harsh décor of the past. He realizes the painting on the wall, of the woman surrounded by chaos doesn't so much remind him of her anymore.

That's when it hits him. Her murder board is gone. He wonders how he hasn't noticed earlier. Wonders when she took it down. Of course he has most recently visited during the evening and has been distracted by things other than thoughts of murder and justice. He saves that for when he's alone in his study. He had been distracted by thoughts of a fun-filled night ghost-busting. Thoughts of snuggling on the couch with an eighty pound retriever at their side. He could be forgiven for not noticing. For not wanting to look in that direction.

For not wanting to sully what has been blossoming between them with his own subversiveness.

She reemerges from her room, a timid smile aimed his way and she makes her way over to the kitchen. She grabs two mugs and begins to pour. She pours cream into the beverages and he imagines it's the color of the skin on her abdomen. He imagines himself walking up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and brushing the pads of his fingers down her side. Tracing the scar he knows is there but hasn't yet laid eyes on. Confirming for himself that she is here and she is whole. Her face is scrubbed clean and her cheeks are rosy from the effort. As though she has made herself bare for this moment.

Or maybe it's nerves. He doesn't know. He doesn't know much in this moment.

She's gorgeous. That much is certain. Baggy sweat shorts that hang low on her hips and a faded department issued tee that slouches off one shoulder, do nothing to keep his heart confined to his rib-cage. He imagines himself as some animated cartoon character, a big, red heart, pulsing towards her on a spring. Reaching for her, needing her. Her feet are bare as well and as he wanders up beside her her glances at her toes. They are painted a soft, blush pink and curled tightly towards the wooden floor as if she's bracing herself. The only indication that she is just as nervous as he is about what's to come.

He doesn't want her to have to be wary around him. They need to do this before their combined mental states drive them once again back to the stagnant impasse.

She must sense this herself as once again they start at the same time.

Quick. Like a band-aid he thinks as he watches her ready herself to speak. He has to do this first. He has to be the one. He's already forgiven her for what she thinks she's about to reveal.

"It's about your case.." he blurts.

"I remember everything.." she cries, as her mouth hangs open and his words register.

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><p><strong>AN: I have to say thank you and just..Wow! I got a huge response to this story. Huge. I can't thank you all enough for the favorites and especially the reviews. Oh so many reviews. I was like a giggly school girl opening my email yesterday. Did I say thank you already?**

**You can blame yourselves for having me continue and leaving you on yet another cliffhanger. ;)**

**Nicole: You are a doll. All the imaginary monies to you!**


	3. Chapter 3

She's known.

She's known that he's been working her case. Nobody has said anything, least of all him, but she's known. Because she knows him. Knows him and his need to know the story, his need to save her.

From herself.

For himself.

Still the acknowledgment hits her like a slap in the face, a visceral reaction she can't control. Years of obsession and speculation have made the reaction rote. She stumbles backwards, feet faltering. She feels like she should be yelling or screaming. Ordering him out of her place. Her life.

All she wants to do is fall into his arms and wish the last week away. The last year. Decade. She wants this to be easy. Nothing is ever easy with them.

But love isn't easy she has learned. It's anger and tears, hurt and pain. It's not caring about all that because despite it all you still want to be there for the other. It's following your heart and not your head. Just as much an act of giving as it is receiving.

She hates him right now. Hates that he felt he couldn't confide in her. Couldn't trust her with her own case. But she understands why, has the therapy bills to prove it. She had thought she had been protecting him with her secret. From herself and her bruised heart. From the pain she knows she will cause him. She's sure his reasons are similar. Sure he feels as though he's her savior. Her protector and knight in shining armor. She hates that he has to feel that way.

She hates him with a passion that can only be attributed to love. Because if she didn't love him, she wouldn't care. If she didn't love him she'd be demanding answers right now, demanding to learn what he's learned. She'd be indifferent to the look of sheer panic and fear on his face. The nervous shift of his feet and the way his eyes are flitting toward the door. As though he wants to run. As though he can't bear to feel her wrath again. Can't bear to have history repeat itself. As though if she tells him to get out again, he might not be able to come back.

She's terrified that he might not want to.

The opposite of love isn't hate, it's apathy. And she realizes the only thing she feels right now is empathy. For the hurt she has caused him. For making him wait and for leading him down her rabbit hole. For not giving to him as he has to her.

The hate was fleeting, an unconscious reaction. Pushing it to the side was easier than she could have guessed. Because this man is worth fighting for. For reasons she can't explain, and because of all the mistakes in the past she can't bring herself to regret, this man is worth fighting for. Now is their time.

Now or never.

The thought of never makes her nauseous. It has to be now.

"Rick."

Her voice is gentle. Pleading. She wills him to look at her, to look her in the eyes and see that she harbors no ill will. To see the forgiveness. He resolutely stares at the floor as though awaiting the final blow.

"Kate," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."'

"Rick, look at me," she tries again. More forceful, trying to break him out of this spell. His bout of self-flagellation.

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><p>The end is near, he knows. He saw the flash of hate and the way she physically reeled away from him. As though his very presence repulsed her. The end is near and images of years past are assaulting his mind.<p>

The sway of her hips as she'd walked away from him that very first case, the look of acceptance and permission before he'd first kissed her in that darkened alley, the horrifying moment as her eyes had slipped shut in that cemetery and the glorious feeling of relief when he'd first walked into her hospital room. When he had confirmed for himself that she was truly alive and breathing. Apart from wires and machines. Apart from the cold, solitary confines of the ICU and stolen moments silently repeating his vow of love.

He had promised her as she lay unconscious and fighting for life, after he had furtively gained access when her father had taken a break and her boyfriend had gone home, he had promised never to stop loving her and to keep her safe.

If protecting her means never seeing her again, he is willing to pay that price. He had been willing to give up his life that morning in the warm, spring sunshine. He'd be willing to do it again. Always.

"Rick, look at me."

He's not willing to do that. He can't. Because if he looks at her he might relent. He might cave in and tell her all about the case. What he has found. About the calls and the threats. If he tells her she will rush headlong down the rabbit hole and he can't bear to watch. Not again. Not after she bled crimson over his palms and took what could have been her last breath in the back of an ambulance. Not after he'd sobbed in the restroom of the Twelfth, as he washed his hands and her blood circled down the drain.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, stares forlornly at the wooden flooring and waits for her to order him out. Waits for her to demand answers and to break her heart with his denials.

Her touch startles him, warm and tentative on his wrist, along his forearm. A light brushing of her finger tips. It leaves the hairs on his forearm raised and tingling.

"Rick."

He wonders why she keeps calling him that. Why her voice isn't laced with venom and his chosen moniker isn't on her tongue like a profanity. How can she be calling him by his given name now? After she knows of his subterfuge, his lies.

Her touch is persistent and he feels his will leaving him. With each small stroke another tendril of his carefully laced control falls away. She curls her fingers around his arm, coaxes his hand out of his pocket. As she laces her fingers with his own, covers their joined hands with her other, he feels the last of his resolve abandoning him. His fingers, as if by their own volition, squeeze around hers and his traitorous eyes raise to meet her gaze. He glances away, hesitant to truly linger, knowing he can read her like a book. Not sure what he will find written behind them, written on her soul. Written for him.

The force is too strong though, her hold on his hand too warm and firm. Urgent and pressing. He can't withstand her insistent pull any longer, she has beguiled and cajoled him with her touch. Like she always does. Doubtfully he casts his eyes back to hers. Lets his gaze rest. Linger and examine.

He regards her in wonder. There is no more hate. No more fear. Just acceptance.

And love.

Love is laid bare before him and it takes his breath away. Her lips quirk upwards in a small and reassuring smile. Her face is as open and relaxed as he's ever seen it and he wonders when she skipped ahead so far. How she managed to overtake him in the forward progression of this relationship. How he missed it. He realizes that while he's been busy keeping secrets and denying his feelings, she been quietly working on her own.

He thinks he should send her therapist a fruit basket. Or a Ferrari. Anything he wants.

Nothing could be too high a price for the sudden understanding that they are both - finally - on the same page.

Quickly, he pulls her toward him. Wrapping his arms around her, he breaths in her hair, lays a lingering kiss to her temple. He delights in the way her arms circle his waist, the way her fingers lock together, effectively trapping them together.

Finally, he feels as though he can breath again. Feels the words returning to him as his pulse returns to a more natural rate.

"I heard you," she utters into his chest. "I remember everything and I heard you. I'm sorry. So sorry. I love you, Castle. I love you, Rick."

Warmth spreads throughout his body. Warmth and relief. He didn't know how much those words would mean. How much they would effect him. He'd told himself he'd never have to hear them, that having her alive would be enough. That if they managed to make it through this together, that her presence would be enough.

He leans out of the embrace and places a thumb to her chin, lets his knuckles lightly brush her jawline and tips her face up and toward his own. He brushes a light kiss to her lips, soft and slow.

"I love you," he breathes into her mouth, kissing her again. "I love you."

Which each repetition, a small part of the burden lifts off his shoulders. Months on tension float away as he repeats the words. As she repeats them back.

"I love you."

Three simple words, strung together in the correct order. Telling so much more. Informing of tolerance, understanding, forgiveness. Cogent evidence of the feelings so long held close to the vest.

They stand, foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync, saying nothing for what seems like an eternity. He wishes he could stay like this forever. Quiet and content. Happy and vital. Surrounded by an aura of destiny come to pass. He knows though that he has explaining to do. That she does.

"Kate, we need to talk," he mumbles against her cheek, taking a moment to trace his mouth along the form of her jaw, stopping to gasp as he feels her nibble on his neck. He grinds his teeth, wills himself to calm down, needing to apologize and explain before they go any further.

"Kate.."

Her fingers toy with the short hairs at the nape of his neck, her thumbs soothes at the tense muscles. It's taking an inordinate amount of self-control to not drag her into the bedroom. To stake his claim and prove to her in deed what he has just vocally confessed.

He wants to worship at the altar of Katherine Beckett, confess his sins and receive absolution. He wants to lay himself at her feet and offer himself to her service.

"Kate, let me explain why I lied."

But when she hushes a breathy, "Later," and leads him towards the bedroom, who is he to argue?

He has penance to serve.

It doesn't seem like much of a punishment.

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><p>Later, when they are laying tangled between sweaty sheets and as their bodies cool, she smiles and plays her fingers lazily upon his chest. Drawing circles and playfully tugging on the soft hairs.<p>

"What are you thinking?" she asks quietly, knowing they have much to discuss, feeling surprisingly content about it.

"I'm thinking I'm the luckiest man alive."

"Mmm, you are," she smirks, sucking on a nipple and releasing it with an audible 'pop'.

He chuckles and continues, his face becoming serious.

"I'm thinking, I'm glad you're naked and there's nowhere to hide a gun."

"And why would I need a gun?"

"So you can shoot me when you hear what an ass I've been. What I've been doing."

"I'm not gonna shoot you."

"You might."

"Spit it out, Castle."

"Ouch! Back to Castle, huh?"

He makes a show of mock heartbreak, clutches at his chest and flails around on the bed.

"Anytime you're ready, Rick."

She rolls her eyes but the words are soft and reassuring, trying to convey to him that she's already forgiven whatever he has to confess. She waits for him and takes a breath as he once again becomes serious. Braces herself for the news on her case, her mother's case. She reminds herself that whatever he has done, is doing, he's doing it out of love. He's doing it for the right reasons and together they can figure it out. She promises herself that no matter what, their time is _now._ She can't live without him. Not anymore. She will forgive him and they will work it out.

She won't shut him out. Never again.

Not now they've come home.

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><p><strong>AN: Alright my lovelies, there you have it. The conclusion to We're Going Home. I decided to stop this one right then and there because if you've read what I started before this, "Rain Down Over Me", you know they have the possibility to become much too similar. **

**My beta on this, (Nicole - she's the best and you have her to thank for me continuing and finishing this), berated me for the "Nicholas Sparks" moment and my annoying fade to black sex scene, or really the complete lack of sexy times altogether. **

**I apologize. Read "Rain Down", I plan on angry sexy times in that one with no fading to black. You're welcome. :)**

**To all the people who reviewed, you rock my socks! You're the cat's ass in pajamas! The cream in my coffee! Same goes for all the alerts and favorites.**

**Before the notes become longer than the chapter, thanks again!**

**-Ky.**


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